Trolley Tracks
by Bildungsroman
Summary: Because they never quite realized how intertwined their lives were, and she feels like a rag doll when tossed away.


**Disclaimer: ****All that I own are my thoughts; the characters and Final Fantasy franchise belongs to Square-Enix**

"_Don't cry; I'll read you lullabies. I'll rearrange the stars in the sky to spell out your name in fluid curves and effortless edges, so much so that you'll forget I went away at all." _

"_No, no, I'll just forget that you ever even existed. And you did not think of that yourself. Copycat."_

"_Baby doll! You cut me deep; you could never do that. In fact I'd bet my heart and soul on it, but you already have them, so it seems I have nothing left to give."_

"_Cute." She laughs. "But, how could you know? In fact I'd have no problem with it; it would save me from all the headaches your voice causes."_

His last phone call was five years ago; she stoutly reminds herself, straightens her shoulders, and adjusts the flower basket hanging from her right hand. There's steam spilling out over the cobblestones and her mind spins over the thought of how much this city looks like a dragon.

She's can't grasp why she ever said that.

Her life is weaving around the telephone poles and the ends of threads are licking at her heels. This chapter in her life wants to close and the story needs to end, but the little echoes of his voice bounce and stumble over membranes and cells in her body making her wonder where he's been all this time.

They had been at the point where they could finish one another's sentences; where such thought was easy and it had become a game to figure out what the other was on the verge of saying. Mutual comfort, equal-partnership between fourths of people who were missing only little pieces of their hearts. By now it's December and a draft is fluttering through the hole in the church like monarch butterfly wings causing her to wish she had brought a jacket.

But, she had been flying on magic carpets for too long and in a sense this almost seemed like a cruel wake-up call from the earth that she had to be careful with what she teased him about.

She wonders when her life will interact with her dreams. There's some miscellaneous substance all over her dress and the ribbon he gave her broke this morning; now it seems as though nothing is sacred in the world anymore.

Resolutely, she is determined to make friends; it doesn't matter where, she's desperate. Now she's sitting in the corner of a cozy little bar failing to persuade herself to get up and get a life that doesn't involve dirt or inanimate objects. There's a fan twirling lethargically overhead and numerous patrons bothering the poor barmaid at the front. Her mother would be ashamed of her she reasons, but that doesn't matter at the moment as she tilts her head backwards and finds the glory of a world turned upside down. Hilariously she finds herself to be rather drunk and tumbles comically to the ground; she remarks that the floorboards smell like cheap beer. It seems that no one has noticed her fall, so she keeps her face rooted to the floor and begins to mumble incoherently to herself to pass the time.

And all at once she begins to shake uncontrollably, because every phone call she's sent out has reached a disconnected number and she doesn't know why she hasn't looked for him anywhere but under cardboard boxes and in corner stores. Her hair is messy and obstructing her vision; she imagines that she looks like a child and not the grown woman she is after the years of suffering this affliction. She disgusts herself. But she's fine. She's truly unquestionably happy because sometimes she imagines stars and sparks erupting from the very ground she walks upon. And sometimes with a certain, mastered, sangfroid she has to fake her way through a question or two of her mother because all she can think of is how much she wants to wear the table cloth as a cape. Is that odd? That's good. Fantastic.

When she looks up the place has cleared out and the barmaid is making her way across the expanse of this place she's in (Seventh Heaven? Is that the name?). She protests when the young woman hoists her up and onto one of the chairs and then sits down across the table from her.

"I'd like to inform you that you've been on my floor for the past hour or so and that fact disturbs me a little." She has to crack a smile at that.

"You were concerned and you let me lie on your floor for over an hour?" She tilts her head in challenge at the stranger; the stranger laughs.

"You looked comfortable; I didn't have the heart to move you." It's then that Aeris leans back, crosses her legs in a very ladylike manner and dusts the grim off her clothing. "I just wanted to tell you that I have to close up now." She nods her head, but her body is sore and won't really let her get up. She's does though and begins to make her way to the door.

"Also, you were crying." She turns around and sees the barmaid has begun to pick up stray glasses and broken shards.

_Don't cry; I'll read you lullabies._

She hums in agreement and can feel her skin rough and cracking with each little twitch. That's not fair though, her life shouldn't be so easily on display.

And then her heart stops, because she hears a familiar beating of steel-toed combat boots on the floorboards overhead. She looks up and with her eyes traces the path of whoever it may be that meanders lost and confused upstairs. The barmaid glances up too and her expression softens revealing how tired and ghastly she looks in the florescent lights. "SOLDIER. Found him at the train station today." Answering the unasked question; Aeris makes a small noise of acknowledgement and a part of her desperately wants to go up and see if it's her soldier and not just another stranger she sees him in. She can see the faint outline of some boots and a pant leg lurking at the top of the stairwell listening to their conversation. She doesn't want to be disappointed again. But, maybe…just maybe…

The barmaid walks over to the bottom of the staircase and tilts her head upwards; the light catches her eyes. They're red. How unusual she muses.

"Cloud?" Ah, not him then. She turns and begins to twist the knob back out into the slums to find her way home. The foot steps quickly retreat and the barmaid's face falls. She hears a partial goodbye and sees such a melancholy expression on the poor woman that she considers staying to cheer up her halfway-friend before the doorway slams.

And she wishes the plate didn't block the sky.

Later on, she's wandering about the trolley station looking for stray soldiers too. And she's riding the rails late into the night wondering if her mother went out to find her hours ago. Because on the trolley tracks she hopes there might be a discombobulated man with a lopsided grin crashing through the roof of the caboose. And being a good young woman is so lonesome that she doesn't know if she can keep this façade up. Because he promised and prayed and there's this constant pressure and presence are her that she can't quite understand.

So, into the night the trolley and train roll onward, reassured because surprisingly she can find his name in the stars. But, only if she looks hard enough.


End file.
